all went well, they knew their battle with Kotto’s men would be over within seconds, making it the easiest mission they’d ever been on.
Unfortunately, it didn’t feel very easy while they waited.
Dressed in black and trying to blend in with the landscape, the soldiers were unable to relax. They were nervous and eager, excited and scared, but not relaxed. Too many things could go wrong for them to be relaxed, especially since the start signal was in the hands of a stranger they had never worked with before.
No, not Payne. All the MANIACs followed his advice like scripture.
In actuality, they were waiting for the muezzin, the Islamic crier. They would go on his call, during the Muslims’ moment of weakness-when the sun kissed the horizon and the guards least expected violence.
The voice rang out like a tormented wail, soaring from the largest mosque in the city to the smallest homes in the neighborhoods below. The muezzin’s impassioned plea, like a hypnotic command from Allah himself, sent people dropping to the ground, causing all Muslims to set aside their nightly activities in order to give thanks.
And the MANIACs took advantage of it.
said Payne, who was thankful for the opportunity to burst into the complex with a silenced Heckler amp; Koch MP5 K in his hands. He knew when he reached his assigned territory, a small section in the center where the hostages were supposedly kept, that all of Kotto’s guards would be on the floor, praying toward the distant land of Mecca. And once he found them, he would use them for target practice.
Payne was trailed by Jones, Shell, and Sanchez, and their path met no resistance along the way. No guards, no workers, no noise. The place was an industrial ghost town, and the lack of activity unnerved Payne. In confusion, he drew a large question mark in the air.
Responding in the silent language of the MANIACs, Shell touched his watch, made a counterclockwise motion with his finger, pointed to his eyes, then to the room straight ahead. That meant when he had come through earlier, he had seen the guards in the next room.
Payne nodded in understanding.
If Shell’s reconnaissance was accurate, the massacre was about to commence, and it would take place in the chamber they were facing. Their goal was to eliminate as many guards as possible-the plant workers were already out of the building, so they didn’t have to worry about innocent by standers getting hit-and rescue the slaves from captivity.
After taking a deep breath, Payne calmly pointed to his watch, his foot, and then his own backside before glancing back at his partners. The unexpected signal brought smiles to their faces. In MANIAC-speak, it meant it was time to kick some ass.
The four men moved forward, looking for the best possible opportunity to begin their assault. And as they’d hoped, that moment occurred the instant they walked in the door. Ten guards, all assembled in the tiny area, were spread across the floor in prayer. Each was kneeling on an individual straw mat while facing Mecca.
And unluckily for Kotto’s men, that direction was away from the door.
Wasting no time, Payne and Shell crept to the left while Jones and Sanchez slid to the right. Then, once everyone was in position, Payne looked at his friends and nodded. It was his signal to commence the assault.
Pfffft! Pfffft! Pfffft! Pfffft!
Fury rained upon the guards like a judgment from God, splattering their innards all over the room like a slaughterhouse floor. The tiny bursts of gunfire, muffled by the silencers, continued at a rapid pace until the MANIACs were confident that Kotto’s men were dead.
Then, just to be safe, Shell and Sanchez fired some more. No sense in taking any chances.
When target practice was over, Jones treaded through the carnage, inspecting bodies as he moved. Crouching near the door, he examined the spring lock and chose the proper pick. “The infrared that we used earlier showed that this room was full of people. From what we could tell, there was no sign of weapons. Hopefully, they’re who we’re looking for.”
Payne nodded anxiously, praying that Ariane was inside and unharmed.
It had been nearly a week since he had last kissed her, since he had held her in his arms and confessed his love to her. It was the first thing he was going to do when he saw her. He was going to grab her and tell her how much he cared, how much she meant to him, how lonely he had been without her. She was his world, and he was going to make damn sure she knew it.
“Got it,” Jones whispered.
The sound of his partner’s voice brought Payne back to reality. He moved to the left of the entrance, wrapped his finger around his trigger, and waited for Jones to turn the handle.
With a flick of his wrist, Jones swung the door open and calmly waited against the outside wall for an outburst of violence. Payne and the others waited, too, knowing that inexperienced guards often charged forward to investigate the unknown. But when the four men heard nothing-no footsteps, voices, or gunshots-they realized they were either facing an elite team or no one at all.
Payne did his best to raise his injured arm and slowly counted down for his men.
Three fingers. Two fingers. One finger. Showtime.
The MANIACs entered with precision. Jones slid in first, followed closely by Payne and the others. With guns in a firing position, the men scoured the room for potential danger, but none was present. The only thing they saw was a scared group of hostages, gagged and tied up in the center of the floor.
“Is there anyone in here?” Jones demanded. “Did they set any traps?”
The heads of the hostages swung from side to side.
Shell and Sanchez didn’t take their word for it, though. They carefully searched the corners, the walls, and the exposed pipes of the twenty-by-twenty-foot metallic room, which had the feel of a submarine mess hall, but found nothing that concerned them.
When Shell gave the word, Jones grabbed his radio and spoke rapidly, ordering the next wave of MANIACs to enter the facility.
But Payne ignored all of that. His mind was on one thing and one thing only: Ariane.
He moved into the group of hostages and instantly recognized their faces from the boat. He couldn’t wait to ask them how they managed to get caught-the last thing he knew they were motoring away from the island-but that would have to wait until after he found Ariane.
Shit! Where was she? Why couldn’t he find Ariane?
Out of nowhere, the face of Robert Edwards appeared in the crowd, and Payne rushed to his side. He removed his gag and asked, “Are you okay?” But before he got a response, he continued. “Have you seen Ariane?”
“No,” Edwards said. “Have you seen Tonya? Have you seen my Tonya?”
At that moment, Payne could’ve kicked himself. Here he was worrying about his own needs when he should’ve been more concerned with the needs of the slaves. They were the ones who had been through the bigger ordeal. Compared to them, he’d been through nothing.
“Tonya’s fine, just fine. And the baby’s still inside her, right where it should be.”
Relief flooded Edwards’s face. “Where
should be. We’re having a boy.”
Payne smiled at the information. “Right where
should be.”
“And Tonya? Where is she now?”
“Don’t worry. She’s safe. She’s in New Orleans at FBI headquarters, giving a statement. And before I left town, I got her an appointment with the best obstetrician in the state. He promised me that she’d be in good hands.”
“Thank God,” Edwards muttered.
Payne gave him a moment to collect his thoughts and count his blessings before he continued his questioning. “Robbie, I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .”
“You want to know about Ariane.”
“Have you seen her?”
